Déjame
by Polly Lynn
Summary: "She's not waiting for him. She's drinking alone." A post-ep for 1 x 05, A Chill Goes Through Her Veins. One-Shot


Title: Déjame

WC: ~3000

Rating: K+

Summary: "She's not waiting for him. She's drinking alone." A post-ep for 1 x 05, A Chill Goes Through Her Veins.

A/N: Another thing brought to you courtesy of the massage table and cognitive leftovers from Material Witness—A Taste of Honey. Not sure why Brain had to write it today when we have grown-up work to do and we still have to sort out the last chapter of "Taken."

I strongly suspect Cora Clavia has some kind of voodoo Brain that she manipulates with her dark magic.

* * *

She's drinking alone.

The bar isn't crowded, but it isn't empty either, and for the space of three painful heartbeats, he thinks she's waiting for him.

It seems like she's waiting for him.

Like she might turn to him and gesture to the cracked red vinyl of the vacant stool to her left.

Like he might take her up on the invitation without comment. Slide on to it and hold up two fingers toward the bartender. Tap his glass against hers and drink in comfortable silence until it starts again. Until she draws a breath all the way into the heart of her and tells him her story.

More of it.

_More._

For three heartbeats, he believes the most unlikely thing in the world.

Second most unlikely.

She's not waiting for him.

She's drinking alone.

He's in the way. The bar is dark, even after the dim copper of the streetlight, and the sight of her stops his feet just inside the door.

There's a waitress with a tray under her arm. She's giving him a heavy stare, and he knows she needs to get by him. There's a man in a battered pea coat coming in from the street. He's caught between them. He's in the way, but he doesn't know what to do.

_Go._

It's the first thing that occurs to him. A quiet syllable so compelling that it jerks him half toward the door and has him hunching into his collar. It has him braced against the April wind before the sting of it has even left his cheeks.

It's the first thing that occurs to him. To leave her in peace. To shove guilty hands in his pockets and get out of there before she sees him. Before she turns and looks him up and down and knows in an instant.

Where he's been.

What he's been doing.

That he watched her bleed and it wasn't enough.

_It was my mother. _

He knows what it cost her and still he couldn't leave well enough alone.

_Go. _

He doesn't. Even though it's louder now. The syllable is harsh and panicked. It caroms off the base of his skull, but he doesn't move.

The waitress brushes by him with an irritated sigh. The man steps around him without a glance. Steps down the bar and takes a seat. An empty one far from her.

_Go. _

He's furious with himself. With her, because she does this to him.

She has him turned inside out.

She has him ready to duck back out into the wind like this is _her _bar. Like he doesn't have just as much right as her to a damned drink wherever he pleases.

She has him burning with guilt for doing his _job_. For not doing anything. Not really.

She offered. She told him. Just like that.

_It was my mother_.

He hasn't really done anything. He knows what she's told him and nothing more. The file—Esposito—that gave him nothing, really.

_Nothing. _

Facts, maybe. But no more of the story.

But he closes his hands into fists like they're stained with it. Ink and image. The hollow, broken words of a nineteen-year-old girl he can't see in her. Not anywhere in her.

She's drinking alone.

That doesn't happen by accident.

Nothing about her invites approach. Her coat is on and her elbows are drawn in tight. Her eyes are on the row of bottles opposite, and she doesn't speak when she reaches the end of her glass. She slides another bill across the scarred wood and nods once when the bartender swaps out the empty.

_Go. _

It's resigned this time. The weary product of math he does in his head. The irregular count of bodies strung along the bar in awkward knots.

She's thrown everything off. The room is uneasy with it. With the unlikely sight of her alone.

The empty stool is to her left. He knows she must have defended it more than once. Wordless rebuke and an icy syllable here and there. He knows she must have.

He sees the casualties. Broad shouldered strangers sitting closer together than they'd like. Trading rounds. Stealing glances at her and commiserating. About what, they're not quite sure, but amber columns go up in down in their glasses like they're missing something.

They are.

She's drinking alone.

_Go. _

He listens now.

He's about to, but there's a commotion behind him. The wind catches the door and bangs it into the concrete wall sheltering the stairs as they dump new bodies into the cramped foyer. Two blue-collar types muscle through together, grappling and cursing. Knees and elbows against the glass. Against the doorframe.

He turns.

Everyone turns.

She turns.

He sees her flick back the skirt of her trench coat. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees it peel away from her thigh.

Her fingers land on her hip. He sees the dull glint of her shield and the shadow of her service weapon.

He sees her chin jerk up in surprise.

He sees her see him.

The commotion dies down. It's nothing. Posturing that ends with one man waving a twenty and the two of them making foul-mouthed peace as he slaps it down on the bar.

She turns away. Back to the row of bottles and he wonders what she's thinking. If she's hoping he'll just go. If that's her voice in his head. Joining in now.

_Go. _

He wonders if she'd fend him off. If he hooked the stool with his ankle and tried to settle in, if she'd make him go. A wordless rebuke or an icy syllable.

He wonders and he waits for the fury.

It's not her fucking bar.

He didn't follow her.

He didn't ask. She offered.

And he hasn't done anything wrong. He hasn't _really _done anything at all.

He waits for the fury, but it doesn't come. His feet move. His knees unlock and his body jerks along.

He hooks the stool with his ankle. He settles in.

The bar goes quiet. Her casualties wait in silent twos and threes to see what she'll do, but it's a let down.

She doesn't do anything.

She doesn't fend him off.

She doesn't say anything or look at him.

He catches the bartender's attention. He tips his head toward her glass. The dark wood of the bar breaks through the thin amber crescent barely coating the bottom. He taps two fingers on the rail and the bartender hesitates. He looks to her.

She doesn't nod.

She doesn't _not _nod, either, and two glasses appear.

He wraps his fingers around his own. Sips at it for something to do.

She drains the dregs of the old and hesitates.

Her fingers hover a moment over the new. She taps the rim. A blunt, unpolished nail meeting glass. A dull sound that swallows itself. Nothing like the aching note of his glass meeting hers. Nothing like he imagined in those three heartbeats.

She taps the rim and makes a fist. Uncurls her fingers like it's work and lifts it to her mouth. She takes a sip of her own.

He's beside her, but it's nothing like he imagined.

He's beside her.

She's drinking alone.

* * *

"Why tonight?"

He measures the time in drinks. Two and a half when the question falls out of his mouth. When it drops between them and seems to get lost.

They're drinking together by then. They have been for this half drink and maybe a quarter of the last.

They're drinking together, though he'd be hard pressed to say how he knows. To convince anyone beyond the two of them.

_Why tonight_?

It's the first thing he's said. The first thing either of them has said, but that's the same thing.

_Why tonight? _

Her hands flatten on the bar and she's about to lie.

Her mouth opens on the first thing she'll have said all night, and it's going to be a lie.

She'll talk about orders. Montgomery. Keeping the Mayor happy and not having any choice.

Those are the lies she's about to tell, but he rushes in.

"That's not what I asked."

Her mouth twists. She hasn't said anything, but they both know.

She glares, but he keeps going. Tramples flat whatever would-be lie was up next.

"I didn't ask why you told me."

He stops then. Falters and stares into his glass. Into the gold tipping up the side. Curving against gravity in his hand.

It's an odd feeling. The opposite of déjà vu.

They're drinking together. They never have before, but they will again.

He sees it. Not some omen. Not in the gold of her glass, though it's flat and still right now. Far from her hand like a scrying glass.

But that's not how he knows they'll do this again.

He knows from the way her body falls into easy lines next to his. He knows from two and a half drinks worth of silence she didn't think he had in him.

They've never done this before, but they will again.

He'll sit to her left and she'll keep score. Round for round. She'll let him pay sometimes. Other times she won't. But she'll keep score.

He blinks up at her, surprised. Surprised and burning with something. A warm flare he doesn't know the shape of until that's out of his mouth, too.

"You were always going to tell me."

He downs a sip. More than a sip. A burning swallow that tastes exactly right.

She glares._ Really_ glares and he knows it's the first time. He's never _really _seen her glare before this moment.

But she doesn't deny it.

She tips her glass, too. She stares into it and he thinks she sees the same thing. That she'll taste the same thing a moment from now when the gold tips up the side. When it curves against gravity and slides over her tongue.

Inevitability.

They've never done this before. They'll do it again.

"Why tonight."

He says it again. It's not a question this time. It's words. Two of them and the punctuation of her glass meeting wood. Liquid sloshing harder than she'd like it to.

She looks at him.

That's a first, too. Even though they're drinking together, she hasn't looked at him once.

He's looked at her, of course. Sneaking glances at first. In the mirror, over the row of bottles. In profile. Bolder and bolder, because she hasn't looked at him once. Not even when she glared.

She looks at him now, though, and he sits up straighter.

Her mouth twists again. She's annoyed.

She's annoyed and for a second it's depressing. It's familiar.

For a second it feels like every single day of the last few weeks. He's tired. The hard work of it all tumbles down around him and he's tired.

_Go_.

The syllable is there again, and he almost pushes back.

There's a violent shove coiling in the muscles of his calves and he's about to listen to it.

To push away from the bar and walk out. To do this another way or not at all.

He could not do this at all.

She sees it. She knows he's going and there's something. A ripple down her throat. A hard swallow and a flash of something. Disappointed certainty.

_No. _

The word is there in his head. Just another syllable, but it's louder. It's full and it clacks his teeth together. It sets his jaw. He's not going anywhere.

"Why tonight?"

She doesn't smile when he says it. Her face doesn't change at all. He'll swear to that later when he thinks about this moment.

Nothing changes and everything does.

She's annoyed. He's caught her out, and she's still annoyed. But it's specific. It's not her typical impatience with him. It's not every day of the last few weeks.

He could have asked why. He could have crowed over her giving in. She had a lie ready for just that.

But he didn't.

She's annoyed, but there's something over the top of it. Something she unfolds. Something she reveals even though her face doesn't change at all.

She's . . . impressed? Grudgingly impressed that he thought to ask this.

_Why tonight_?

"Would you have left it?"

He blinks hard at the words when they finally come. He doesn't understand what she's asking.

She sees it. She goes on and that's as surprising as anything. The fact that she elaborates might just knock him flat.

"If I had gone in there and told the Davidsons that Sam had murdered Melanie and that was that, would you really have left it? Never said anything to anyone else?"

"Of course."

He says it immediately. He feels like he should say more. Like he owes her some kind of elaboration, too. Payment in kind, but what else is there to say?

Of course he would have left it.

She shakes her head. She downs the last of her drink, but it doesn't quite get the job done. It masks her mouth. It hides her for a moment and gives her lips something else to do, but he sees it anyway.

The tiniest of smiles. Something unfamiliar that might be grateful. That's definitely pained and something else, too.

_Frantic, _he thinks and tells himself it's silly. She's the stillest person he's ever known, but his mind says it again. _Frantic_.

She's on her feet. She's at the door and he's sitting there. He's staring at himself over the row of bottles in the mirror.

_Frantic,_ his mind says again.

_Go. _

He scoops out his wallet. He downs the last of his drink and throws bills on to the bar.

_Go._

* * *

She's most of the way to the corner. Her collar is up and her elbows are in. She's walking fast and he can't help thinking that her coat's too thin for the April night.

His mouth opens. Her name is there. An admonishment sitting right inside, but it won't budge. He means to call out, but he can't even whisper.

He catches her, though. His mouth is a traitor, but his body doesn't fail him for once. His legs are long and the pull of her is on his side just now.

He catches her in the dark. Just outside a dirty circle of streetlight, his fingers close around her elbow and she stops.

She turns. She shifts her weight and describes the arc of his arm. She's closer than he was counting on, and there's no next step.

"What're you doing, Castle?"

He startles back. He almost drops her arm, but not quite. That's what she's talking about. Why his hands are on her. That's all she's talking about.

"What are you doing?" she asks again, and this time he wonders.

The way she's looking at him, he wonders if she's talking about that at all.

_Frantic_.

There's the word again, but this time it's for him. This time it's the wild desire to undo. To go back and forget. To never know the way the light of a bare bulb falls on a glossy photo of her mother's body.

To wait for the words from her mouth. The hollow, broken words of a nineteen-year-old girl who's in there somewhere, whether he can see her or not.

_Frantic. _

But she doesn't know. She doesn't know all the things he'd undo if he could. That's not what she's talking about, and she's done waiting.

Whatever she was asking, she doesn't think he'll answer. She's going now. She's shaking off his arm and going again.

_Frantic. _

"Just let me . . . " His fingers tighten. He won't let her go. He trails off.

"Let you what?" she snaps. "Keep my secrets?"

She steps closer.

"Not really what you do, is it?" Closer still. She's in his face and the alcohol is sharp on her breath. "Not really your forte."

"Let me," he says again.

He steps into her. Closes the nonexistent distance between them and stops his own mouth with hers. He kisses her, and it's the least of too many sudden evils.

He kisses her for all the good it does. He might as well say it. Everything he didn't know five seconds ago. Everything he's sure of now. Everything that's bound and determined to leap off his tongue, one way or another.

_Let me keep your secrets. _

_Let me know you. _

_Let me love you. I already do. _

He kisses her and she lets him.

For three painful heartbeats she lets him. She kisses him back. Lips and tongue and breath and all of her body for three painful heartbeats.

She breaks away, then.

_Inevitable. _

The world won't end tonight. It won't end with him kissing Kate Beckett. With Kate Beckett letting him. With Kate Beckett kissing him back.

The world won't end, so she breaks away.

She pales. Something stark and beautiful with a brilliant flush on top. A bloom in each cheek that isn't the work of April wind. Color that he put there. Blood that answers just beneath his own skin.

She says things. Downcast eyes and whole sentences about too many drinks.

A return to her one-word goodbye. The addition of his name like it's a kindness.

"Let me . . ."

She meets his eyes. She gives him that, and there's no next step.

_Frantic_.

It's all he can think. For her, this time. For both of them, maybe.

"Let me get you a cab."

She nods. The blunt ends of her hair fall forward to hide the lingering blush. She nods.

He steps to the curb and raises his arm. The cab comes out of nowhere the way they sometimes do. The way they always do when it's the last thing he wants.

He opens the door for her. He doesn't hand her in. He curls his fingers over metal and glass. Over things that aren't her and waits while she settles herself.

"Night, Castle," she says.

He wants to echo her. To respond in kind. To give her his own hopeful counter-phrase. He wants to answer at all, but his throat is shut tight and she seems to understand.

She nods.

He closes the door. He spreads his fingers as the cab pulls away, but she doesn't look back.

"Night," he says to the April wind.


End file.
